There’s a new columnist in America’s Newspaper of Record: Elizabeth Hayt, author of the book “I’m No Saint,” which sounds to be a sort of dead-tree version of “Desperate Housewives.” In today’s column Ms.
Hayt relates an episode from her recent love life. After establishing a satisfactory e-relationship with a poet she refers to only as “Word Guy,” she takes a cab over to his apartment in Brooklyn. One thing leads to another, but then… fails to lead any further. Apparently the guy suffers from performance anxiety. I’ll let Ms. Hayt take up the tale.
“‘I’m happy just to talk,’ I said, gritting my teeth. And talk, he did. Word Guy recounted his recent recovery from a sinus abscess that smelled awful whenever he blew his nose. Because he didn’t have health insurance, he couldn’t afford an operation to permanently correct the problem, so the only treatment was daily irrigation of his nasal passages with a saline solution. Naturally, with Word Guy opening up to me, trusting me enough to share his vulnerabilities, I couldn’t just bolt out the door. He needed a merciful shoulder, which I provided for three hours. At 4 a.m., he finally yawned – my cue to say ‘Adieu.’”
I don’t remember dating ever being that bad; but it’s been 20 years, and memory is merciful, so it may have been. Anyway, thank God for marriage.